Seventy Pounds

It’s always the way. Whenever, I need to get home early from work, I miss the bus. So as I walked up the road, I shouldn’t have been surprised to see the unreliable red vehicle speed along the top of the road. So I sat and stewed in my frustration for another ten minutes as I waited for the next one to come along. After eventually climbing aboard my ride home, I knew that I was going to be in a rush when I got in. Luckily, I had prepared myself as much as I could the night before to make the process that much faster. As these occasions are becoming more frequent, my ability to multitask is vastly improving; sitting on my bed in my underwear, with half my makeup done, shovelling down a pot noodle must have looked an odd site to my mother as she passed by my door. I have to admit, that despite my hastiness in getting ready, I did my makeup rather well and was ready for a good night out.

My father, thankfully, gave me and my friend a lift to the station, where we began our journey. I seemed to become increasingly hyper on this journey. I believe, as I told my friend, it was because I’d basically spent my entire day in silence and was clearly joyous to the fact I finally had some company. At one point whilst waiting for our train, there was one already on the platform and I felt it necessary to shake my fist at it and moan continuously. Once it had finally vacated the area and we were on our second train, I noted that it felt a lot quieter on this train than the last, to which my friend replied, “That’s because you’re not talking.”

Our first stop was to another friend’s house, where we waited for her to finish getting ready before we left to get on another train, which would take us to our final destination.

Tonight, instead of our usual environment, we were voyaging to Watford. Due to the distance and its high prices, we tend not to venture here, but as it was Easter weekend, we thought we’d make the effort. Our first stop was a Wetherspoons, so we could commence our night with cheap drinks and a chat.

After the usually banter, stealing my friends drink and picture snapping, three of our other friends joined us. One of the first things they announced was that one of them had already drank a bottle of vodka and had almost just been sick in the toilet. Classy bird; I would expect nothing less. With this tale now at the forefront of our minds, we all began to hasten our drinking. Soon the alcohol had sunk in and as we all became more restless we decided to continue our night on in Vodka Revs, which is conveniently placed next door. By this point I was less than £10 down.

We stumbled our way out of the pub and the short distance to the awaiting bouncers guarding the door to Revs. After handing over our entrance money we headed straight to the bar. They were playing “Single Ladies” by Beyoncé as we waited. My friend and I wondered, and then agreed, that it is completely fine for us to still passionately sing to and love this song.

When the barmaid approached us I instantly began asking her the prices of different drinks. We spent a considerable amount of time deciding what would be the cheapest drink to get, whilst also being the best aid to our intoxication. On eventually concluding we should get the usual double vodka and diet coke, the barmaid revealed that if you bought one, the second would only be a pound. If only she’d told us this when we’d first arrived at the bar, about a day ago. After finally acquiring our drinks, we ran, with excitement, to tell the others about the fantastic deal we’d just discovered. I still wonder now why we ever left; it certainly would’ve been a much cheaper night.

Although there is no designated area for dancing, this of course didn’t stop anyone. We requested a few songs; the DJ was definitely not happy when he saw me approach him for the second and third time. As usual, I have no recollection to whether they played any of the songs we asked for.

The camera continued to flash non-stop, even following us up to the toilets. Vodka Revs is heaven for girls who revel in taking pictures in the toilets on a night out. The corridor up the toilet has a full wall dedicated to a giant mirror. On top of that, there is another wall within the ladies bathroom that also has a mirror covering it and I have no shame in saying we spent a considerable amount of time in both areas and this selection of pictures are the ones that are most memorable for me.

We decided to move on to another club, Area, and I’d still only spent around £15.

I believe it is around this time that my night plummeted downhill. As we made our way to Area, our group was severed. Myself and one other friend continued to the club, where we were told the entry fee was a lot higher than we’d expected. I reluctantly paid for both of us and we made our way in. However, we still had no idea where our friends were.

On the one hand, it is convenient to have multiple toilet facilities in a club, it reduces queues and prevents individuals having to travel long distances to relieve themselves. On the other hand, it can also be a hindrance. Unfortunately, we experienced the latter. When my lost friends name appeared on my phone, I was immediately relieved. However, I became instantly confused when she told me that she was in the bathroom, when we too, were in the bathroom. We called out her name, receiving odd looks and smirks from the ladies surrounding us as we did so. This revealed that she was definitely not here. So, we went on a hunt to find the other toilets, but when we arrived, they weren’t there either. How many bloody toilets does this place need?!

Eventually, after traipsing up and down stairs and through multitude’s of sweaty bodies, we were all reunited. But by now, I was sobering up, my feet were hurting and I was in the mood for a nap. So instead of making a spectacle of myself and thwart any enjoyment on my friends’ behalf, I decided that, now having spent about £25, I should go home. Well, not home exactly.

In my drunken, needy state, I found it entirely acceptable to ask my boyfriend if I could stay at his, despite the fact he had work the next morning. Being the lovely, kind, person that he is, he agreed. With this notion in mind, I was in a keen mood to leave as soon as possible. Whilst walking to the cab rank, I stopped off to get a kebab; I definitely wasn’t going to let this night deprive me of that chickeny, mayonnaisey, goodness! I continued down the road and eventually approached the line of cars waiting to assist drunken adolescents in their voyages home. When I reached the first one I asked how much it would cost me and I wasn’t at all shocked to hear that it was going to cost me around £40.

Luckily I had a nice cab driver, who let me eat in his car and chatted with me as we drove, which made the whole journey go a lot quicker.

Despite having spent over £70 within around five hours, and over half of it on the cab back to my boyfriends, I still enjoyed the majority of the night. And I’m not gonna lie, the sex was definitely worth it.

The Beginners Guide to Losing Your Dignity

“A quiet one” is what Saturday night was deemed, previous to the antics that later transpired. As usual I ended up rushing around to get ready, breaking draws as I went, and leaving behind what looked like a case of gastric flu on my wardrobe’s behalf, with my clothes expelled around the room. I often try to avoid abandoning my place of existence in such a state, as I know my arrival home when deeply intoxicated, with an acute lack of coordination, making the possibilities of treading on upturned plugs even greater, will be made increasingly difficult and far more raucous. But there was no time for forethought this evening. Without a glance behind me, I made my hasty exit out the door.

After having run for the bus in five and a half inch heels, I was finally on my way. Once I’d met one of my friends, appropriately clad in a gorgeous peach coloured dress to fit the summer weather, opposed to myself, who donned an all black attire, we made a quick stop to Tesco so I could purchase some deodorant, as in my rush I had forgotten to use any, and then waited for our other companion to join us.

Almost as soon as we sat down we began to discuss where the night would take us. We didn’t want to have a wild one, but we also didn’t want to stay in the one place for the entire night. We decided that we’d have a couple of drinks and then decide on our mood.

With a group of girls sitting together, I’m sure you can guess where the main focus of conversation headed; boys. It’s strange how the subject of the opposite sex never tires. We digressed from the somewhat explicit nature our normal conversations hold regarding said topic and instead our thoughts progressed to a more emotional level. With the alcohol flowing, no one felt shy in expressing the love for their significant other, and we all agreed that our previous crimes of infidelity are a thing of the past.

In the end we decided our night should continue down the road at The Crown and Treaty, hosts of one of the continuously featured events of my blog, Rock Night. This night however, they were playing sixties music. I can safely say this is where my night went to shit. Apparently my concerns for money escaped me and I had no issues with ordering myself, and those around me, endless quantities of alcohol. So it’s no wonder I became astonishingly drunk in a short period of time.

As usual, I ended up circling the pub talking to everyone I knew, how well I knew them was irrelevant. Although oblivious at the time, I now see the looks on my victims’ faces when my gaze would fall upon them. As I tumbled along towards my chosen prey, their eyes would begin to shift, hoping they were mistaken and I was falling towards some other poor fellow. Upon realising their fate, a look of terror would flash through their eyes, as if facing a mountain lion. Without any grace or precision, I would strike. What followed was surely a band of indecipherable words and sentences, to which they would politely humour until the situation was too unbearable and they’d issue an excuse in order for them to flee. I remember one such individual stating “I’m going inside to get another drink”, to which my bold response was “It’s because you don’t like me isn’t it?” What more did I expect than for him to agree?

By this point I’m sure my coordination was greatly impaired and I’m glad to say I no longer felt the need to dance. I did, however, feel the need to consume more alcohol. By now my funds had run out, but lo! I had my debit card on me! To my hindrance I proceeded to start purchasing my drinks by card.

The next person I engaged into conversation was an ex from a long time ago. This was one of the first times we’d had a proper chance to converse in a years and we couldn’t have picked a less appropriate time. At this point the alcohol in my body was clearly governing my actions more than my brain was and the alcohol had decided it was tired and I now needed to not just fall asleep, but entirely collapse. I smacked my head down onto the bench at which I was sitting at and was subsequently engulfed into paralyses.

The memory of my exit has been repressed, with events far too traumatic for me to recall. Unfortunately, my mind isn’t as advanced in protecting itself as it thinks. When it comes to the memory of being sprawled across the back seat of a cab and uncontrollably throwing up onto the floor, it devastatingly slipped up and I will forever remain scarred by this image.

Once I’d plummeted out of the cab and onto the pavement, undoubtedly to the cab drivers joy, the struggle to get me into the house began. My trusted carers were forced to awaken my family in order to achieve this goal. With my sister in her pyjamas, she voyaged out onto the street, where she joined the taskforce. Eventually they got me inside and up into my bed. The state I had left my bedroom in on my departure was surely an impediment to their labours. After tears, insistent phone calls to my boyfriend and yet further bouts of vomiting, I was finally settled.

The next morning when I woke up, the closest I can get to describing how I felt is to say I was horrifyingly ashamed. I immediately text my boyfriend, despite the time only being five o clock in the morning. I wasn’t aware that I’d phoned him during my self-inflicted state of intoxication, and even though he hadn't been present during the hysteria that had taken place, I felt the need to apologise. My efforts throughout the past few months to not become a burden to those around me and to avoid making a fool of myself have made my social life that much more enjoyable, I couldn’t help but feel guilty. I am however, not going to let this minor hiccup ruin anything. I’m not going to swear to a life without alcohol because of one night, like so many futilely do. The memories are embarrassing and the hangover was dreadful, but the cookie dough Ben & Jerry’s ice cream I devoured whilst sitting in the sun was delicious and the fact that no one has terminated their friendship with me has made me appreciate them all the more.

Lace Rock Night

After a quiet weekend last week, I was excited about the approaching Saturday night; Rock Night. My outfit was newly bought, with a lust-worthy pair of heels to match. With the attendance of friends I hadn’t seen in a while, the night was sure to be a good one. 

The journey there proved to be eventful in itself. Firstly, as we were walking to the bus stop, my friend realised she didn’t have enough money for the bus and I didn’t have any to lend her. Therefore, as I continued my slow trot to the bus stop in my heels, she had to dart home to get some. Running all the way back to the bus stop, she just made it in time before our bus came.

Then, whilst on the bus, it stopped to let a passenger off and just as the doors were about to close, on jumped three gentlemen, who proceeded to bellow “INDIAAA!” and then simply get off, laughing as they went and continued on to whatever venue they planned to bombard with their obnoxiousness next. My friend and I found this enormously hilarious. My response being “Is there some sort of sport going on?” and her, in a tone of announcement, coining the phrase “You’ve been Indi-ed”. Whether our fellow travelers found this quite as amusing will remain unknown.

After we’d arrived in town, we met our friends and the drinking began. Luckily for me, my body had decided that for tonight, it was going to encompass similar traits to a sponge and after having consumed just two drinks, I was more than feeling the effects. Fragmented discussions of summer holidays, boys and birthdays are jumbled around in my brain. There is also evidence of our attempts to take pictures, whilst still in a semi-sober state, that could probably be deemed as a failure.

One story I remember telling my friends, is to why I only had one lace glove on. This particular tale also involved one of the other occupants at the table. One night many weeks ago I had a small gathering at my house. At one point my friend found herself in my bedroom, where, lying innocently on my bedside table was a pair of lace gloves. She took quite a fancy to them and decided she was more than welcome to take them. However, later she realised that she should probably give them back, but by this time one of them had mysteriously disappeared and so she was only able to reunite me with the single glove. I didn’t let this get me down though and I chose to wear the lone glove anyway.

After a trip to the toilet to fix our makeup and continue our self indulgent picture snapping, we returned to our seats to finish our remaining drinks, which was immediately followed with blind panic, as we realised we had to leave instantly otherwise we were going to have to pay to get into the next pub and that was not an option. We rushed out the doors as fast as our heels could carry us and began, what we felt was, a speedy descension down the road to our destination.

It was on this journey that I was assured of a rather odd superstition that I had only been discussing with my mother earlier that day whilst we were shopping. Having got off the bus, I proceeded to dodge the third grate in a row of three that was in the pavement. I revealed to my mum that for some unknown reason I have an irrational fear that if I walk on said area that I will have bad luck. Now, as I was walking along, arm in arm with one of my friends, she suddenly pulled at my arm in order to prevent me from stepping on the looming third grate. It’s safe to say that my excitement was probably rather dramatised. But after my mother had pulled a face and acted as if I was crazy, this reassurance was greatly appreciated; I now know I’m not the only loony!

As usual, when we arrived the drinks continued to flow. Despite partially spilling two of my drinks early on in the night, I was becoming increasingly merry. Images from here and there are distorted in my mind; from trying to give myself cleavage to kisses with my boyfriend.

Towards the end of the night we made our way inside. I think I have yet to inform my readers that I don’t actually choose to listen to the type of music that is played at rock night. However, I try not to let this dishearten me and I rarely pass up the chance to dance and neither do the majority of my friends. So inside we went, threw our leather jackets to the side and graced the dance floor. I attempted to request a few songs but to no avail, until I mentioned the Offspring to which they said was a possibility, but after all that effort, we left before they had a chance to satisfy my musical needs.

Throughout the weeks I’ve been writing my blog, one of the things people tend to comment on, is the honesty in which I try to write. I have no animosities in being open and detailing the good and the bad experiences I’ve faced. One thing I do tend to avoid is going into the finer points about my lack of self-control I have with my boyfriend when intoxicated. I’m not one to shy away from public displays of affection, even less so in said state of mind and apparently any sense of composure is hastily thrown out the blurred window of inebriation. I lack the capacity to endeavor in suggestive flirtations and tend to get straight to the point and rather bluntly tell him I’d rather be having sex, with no efforts at subtlety or appreciation for unconcerned ears. No doubt, certainly from where I was standing, the sexual tension and frustration I was experiencing this night, was rather intense. I doubt whether the reason for our departure was at all to do with either of us being tired.

This is where our night ended. My memory of the cab journey has completely escaped me and I barely remember what happened when we arrived home. I do know that I had a great night though. Being able to spend time with those I hadn’t been out with in a while definitely made the night what it was.